The new boy was different.
"That kid you brought in—he's bright. He's read every book in the orphanage and never stops asking questions. But he's so sweet." Amy smiled as she sat beside Maria, the orphanage owner, who rocked a cup of cooling tea between uneasy hands.
Maria returned the smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I know. He's been through a lot, but he still plays with the others like nothing happened."
"Come on—swings," Amy said, nudging the boy. The children raced into the yard, laughing. The boy—small, blond, oddly composed—followed, a hint of curiosity brightening his face.
That night, while the orphanage slept, a shadow stood at the edge of the living room.
"Maria, your debt keeps rising. Pay up soon, or we'll make you pay." The voice was low, edged with the threat of someone who enjoyed making others suffer. A man with black hair and a nasty beard leaned in the doorway—Thomas, who collected debts like other men collected taxes.
Maria's hands trembled. "I'll pay, Thomas. I promise."
"That's what you always say," he sneered. "Just know I'll always have an eye on you." He left with a slam.
Two years became a ritual. Thomas—or his lackeys when he couldn't be bothered—came monthly. They beat Maria when she couldn't pay; afterwards she would smooth her face, refill the cups, and act as if nothing had happened in front of the children. Only Amy and the others knew.
"Maria, you have to report them. They're abusing you—forcing you to pay extra," Amy whispered one morning.
Maria forced a laugh. "I don't know what you mean. I'm perfectly fine."
"I'm not a child anymore," one of the older kids said sharply. "I'm sixteen. I can help."
A thud came from the backyard.
Maria and Amy rushed outside. The children clustered around a fallen swing. The little blond boy stood beside it, looking at his small hands.
"Is anyone hurt? What happened?" Maria asked, breathless.
"It was Blank—he did it." One of the children pointed.
They called him Blank because he had no name. Blank's cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry, Maria. I didn't mean to. I—" His voice caught. He looked smaller than his courage.
Amy watched him, stunned. A seven-year-old shouldn't be able to do what she'd seen: the swing had snapped free from rusty chains and settled gently, as if pushed by invisible hands. "Could he have awakened Force?" she thought, heart pounding.
Outside, one of Thomas's lackeys crouched in the shadow where he'd been watching the orphanage. He had seen the boy. He ran—fast—back to the base, breath ragged.
"Boss. A kid in the orphanage—he's awakened Force. He's younger than twelve," the lackey panted.
Thomas listened, amusement spreading into a grin. "Interesting."
The lackey widened his eyes. "I saw it with my own—"
"Then I'll contactthe boss and tell him," Thomas cut in, voice flat. "And stop acting like a fool. Were you stalking children?"
"It wasn't—" the lackey mumbled.
"Shut up and leave." Thomas lifted a crystal from the table and pressed his palm to it. A voice hissed through like smoke.
"You always find a way to prove me right, you useless dunce," the voice from the crystal said. It was cold and superior—X, the shadow at the center of the organization.
"We found a kid. Younger than twelve. He awakened Force. What should we do?" Thomas asked.
X's tone shifted, hungry. "Take him. Send him to headquarters. Train him. Turn him into the best assassin we have."
Thomas's grin went thin. "Consider it done."
That afternoon, Thomas's men came to the orphanage.
Maria signaled to Amy and the children to hide. She opened the door and found five lackeys on her stoop.
"We didn't come for much. Where is the boy?" one demanded.
Maria smiled on reflex. "Who are you talking about?"
The lackey's hand slammed into her cheek and she staggered to the floor. "Don't play with us. Where is he?"
Blank stepped out of his hiding place. "I'm right here."
The lackeys laughed—until the one who had hit Maria stopped mid-step, struck by a wooden table that lifted from the floor and slammed him aside as if unseen hands had done the work. The room broke into chaos.
Blinking lightning flares lit Blank's fingers. Two lackeys convulsed and dropped. With a blur of speed he grabbed a fork and stabbed a third; the last was hurled through the wall by an unseen shove.
Thomas arrived then, calm and dangerous. He looked down at the scene: five of his men incapacitated, and a small blond boy standing above them, red eyes burning.
"You're the one we heard about," Thomas said, removing his blue contact lenses and regarding the boy with cold amusement. He muttered the words of a spell—Terra's grip—and stone cuffs erupted around Blank's wrists.
"Pathetic," Thomas said. "I call these men my lackeys." He picked the boy up by the collar. "You're coming with us."
"Don't take him!" Maria cried, crawling toward them.
Blank smiled, a steady, small smile. "Don't worry, Maria. I'll be fine. Keep my lenses safe. I'll come back. I promise."
---
At the hideout they made the contract.
"This is how it will be," Thomas said. "You join our organization called XOXO". For three years you train at headquarters. You kill."
"What? Why would I agree to that?" Blank demanded.
Thomas's face hardened. "If you refuse, Maria and the others die." He let the words hang. The boy—who'd read every book in the orphanage—understood the rules. A Force contract bound two users; break it, and a person could lose their Force. Thomas's hand opened, offering both the threat and the lifeline.
Blank ground his teeth. Then he nodded.
"Good." Thomas removed the stone cuffs and shook the boy's hand. Two marks bloomed on their shoulders, searing hot and real: the contract.
"Get ready," Thomas said as he left to prepare for the journey. "What's your name?"
"Call me Blank," the boy said. "And get me a mask before we go."
The next day Blank had a white mask that hid his face—except for his red eyes and blond hair. He was sent to the XOXO headquarters.
---
Three years later, Blank returned.
Now ten, trained hard and renamed by the people who used him—Blank the Phantom, a whisper among killers—he asked permission to go home.
"Why is that?" the manager in black asked, curiosity hiding behind a stern face.
"For personal reasons," Blank said. He spoke with the control of someone who had been taught to conceal feeling.
"First time you've asked for anything," the manager shrugged. "Fine."
Blank walked into Fueya village without his mask for the first time in years. Maria saw him and the tears came before she could stop them. She ran and hugged him as if she might never let go.
"You came back," she sobbed.
"Yes," Blank said. He sat with them and listened—told his story, let them tell theirs. Maria brought out a small cloth pouch.
"You kept them safe?" he asked, surprised.
"Of course," Maria answered. "Today isn't ordinary—today's your tenth birthday. I promised to give you a name." Her smile was the warmth of a summer kitchen. "Your name will be Felthart. Do you like it?"
"To all of us you're family," Blank said—Felthart now—softly. "Thank you."
Amy grabbed his hand. "Felt, let's go buy a cake."
They left briefly. When they came back the orphanage was a scene from a nightmare: bodies strewn like rag dolls, the air heavy with loss.
Amy froze. "Wha—" She couldn't form words.
Felthart's face changed. Rage filled him, a living thing. He let the cake drop. He moved with impossible speed—his Force sharpening every muscle. "No," he said, his voice a blade.
He ran to the XOXO base in Fueya as the sun bled into the horizon. Inside were men drinking and boasting. Thomas sat among them, the same smug predator.
"You bastard." Felthart kicked the door open.
Thomas looked up, surprised, then annoyed. "Oh. The boy. What are you—"
"You killed them. Maria's dead. The mark is gone—it means you called off the contract and killed them." Felthart advanced, the room shrinking around him.
Thomas stammered, hand to his throat. "I was following orders. Where's your mask? Aren't you afraid they'll learn your face?"
Felthart's smile was savage. "This face will be the last you see."
What came next was quick and absolute. Two daggers flashed. Men who had never been afraid felt the cold of true terror for the first time. The room filled with blood and the ragged silence that follows slaughter.
When it ended, Felthart set a message on the wall in his own hand: They got what they deserved. — Blank.
He took some gold coins and a spare mask from the base, slung a bag over his shoulder, slid blue contact lenses into his eyes to hide the red, and disappeared into the forest.
That night, Fueya village learned the name of the massacre. The townsfolk whispered it for years to come: the Night of Blank Death.